The Retinue

Author's Note: Anna Grace Whitmore is 27 years old.

The candles flickered, throwing soft light across the walls, the hum of the city outside her window mixing with the slow churn of her fan. The heat of the night clung to her skin, thick, heavy, patient. It was the kind of warmth that settled into her bones, that made everything languid, made her body feel soft, pliant, perfect.

Anna Grace Whitmore never rushed.

She ran her fingers along the wooden box beside her, slow, deliberate. Opened it.

Twenty-four keys.

They caught the light as she lifted a handful, metal sliding together in a soft, delicate clink, the sound curling through her like a warm breath against her skin. Each one, small and simple, held meaning--not for her, but for the men who had placed them in her hands. She rolled them between her fingers, their cool weight warming to her touch, before spreading them out across her palm.

She brought them to her lips, let them dangle from her fingers, watching the way they shimmered.

Twenty-four men.

Twenty-four locked, aching, waiting men.

Somewhere, right now, they were thinking of her.

They could be anywhere. At home, in bed next to their wives, shifting restlessly against their sheets, caged, desperate, hoping tonight would be the night she decided they had earned release.

But she wasn't deciding that.

She traced a fingertip over the smooth skin between her thighs, exhaling slow, pleased. The contrast was delicious--her own body, completely hairless, soft, untouched by restriction--while theirs strained against cold steel, rigid, unyielding.

Tonight?

Tonight was for her.

Anna stretched, unfolding herself like a ribbon, letting her head tip back into the pillows, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose. Her free hand trailed over her flat chest, along her stomach, over the sharp lines of her hipbones, the soft, hairless skin between them flushed warm beneath her own touch.

Her keys were in her purse when she went out.

Tucked between her lipstick and a pack of gum.

A retinue of men she didn't even have to see to know they were following her.

Not physically. Not where anyone would notice.

But they followed.

In the way they ached when she walked by, the way their heads turned when she stopped at a café, the way they knew she held their freedom in the same place she kept her spare change and receipts.

She bit her lip, breath hitching, fingers slipping lower, pressing, teasing, working herself open with the same kind of careful patience she used when brushing dust from old books. Her body arched under her own touch, tension curling like a bowstring drawn tight, each slow, deliberate movement dragging her further into pleasure.

They were all waiting.

Waiting for her.

Waiting to know if they'd spend another day in denial, shifting restlessly in their cages, minds filled with thoughts of her, of this.

Her fingers moved just right, and her body shivered, breath breaking, pleasure curling through her like warm candle wax, like the heat rolling off the pavement outside.

She wasn't loud.

She wasn't Carrie, all moans and filthy declarations.

Anna breathed through it, slow and satisfied, letting each movement build on the last, letting the weight of the moment settle deep inside her.

Twenty-four keys.

She had collected them one by one, each of them handed to her willingly, each man kneeling, naked, caged, trembling as he pressed the key into her palm, offering himself completely.

And she had taken them.

Because of course she had. Anna wasn't just a woman. She was an empire. A petite network of control and devotion. Some of the keys had been hers for years. Others just a few weeks. But they were hers.

Her body arched, a sharp inhale, a flicker of tension, the keys still warm in her hand, her fingers still warm against her own skin.

She imagined them all, helpless, waiting, wanting.

Her breath shook.

And then--

She let go.

It rolled through her like a wave, slow, consuming, electric, her body tightening, her lips parting in silent, reverent release.

When it passed, she lay still for a moment, skin glistening, breath coming soft and even, fingers resting against the keys. She let the pleasure settle into her bones, warm and lingering, before finally exhaling slow, content. She gathered a few keys in her tiny fist.

Eventually, she let them slip from her grasp, falling back into the box like silver-plated brass rain, settling among the others.

Twenty-four men.

Twenty-four waiting, locked, desperate men.

Anna Grace Whitmore stretched, let her body sink into the sheets, smirking as she blew out the last candle.

They would wake up aching.

But she would wake up glowing.